It was perfect.

In the midst of Melkor’s rage, Sauron saw it first. He said nothing as the rant continued; he could hear the fury being taken out upon several dozen orcs nearby, their heads severed cleanly from their crooked necks and their bowels being torn out, sliding from greyed flesh like long ropes of fresh sausage. Sauron heard it, but unlike Thuringwethil or any of the others, he did not cringe nor did he pause or even watch. His eyes were upon something much more interesting.

Dangling limply from the silver chain embedded in the mountain was… something unexpected. Sauron looked about to be sure the others were still distracted by Melkor’s wrath as he pulled the prize up by one finger. Each digit popped and cracked as he straightened them out one by one. He examined the overgrown nails, chipped and jagged from clawing the stone. He marveled at how expertly it had been removed just above the wrist. There was a nick on one side – hesitation. Sauron smiled: whoever did this regretted the act before it happened, and he delighted in knowing that regret would be ever-present for eternity. He licked the dried blood, bone, and muscle of the exposed side and his smile widened as his tongue slid over the sinew. It was only mostly dead.

“I have little patience left for any of you,” sneered Melkor as he put his foot down, crushing the skull of an orc that had begun to sit up. “We have one prisoner. One prisoner, thousands of you, and he escaped. Bound to the mountain, weakened and withered, begging daily for death, powerless -- and he escaped!” Melkor slammed his mace against side of the rock, and a sudden landslide buried his minions nearly to the last, with only Thuringwethil and a few others trembling before him.

Sauron stepped beside Melkor, as if he had been standing behind him the entire time. He turned his head ever so slightly, ever so slowly, and as Melkor looked to him, another creature moved into Melkor’s sight. “What is that?”

“The remains of our prisoner.” Sauron lifted an arm, and a hand, once belonging to Maedhros, scurried down the length of his arm unsteadily, like an infant learning to control his crawl.

“The twisting of your mind stands no chance to be untangled,” mumbled Melkor to himself as Sauron coaxed the creature into his other palm. “What purpose have you for that?” he demanded.

Sauron surveyed what was left of the battalion that had accompanied them. He nodded to an orc that had sustained minor cuts and bruises, beckoning him forward. The orc shuffled a few steps, but his comrades shoved him closer, none of them wishing to be the experimental subject.
“Here.” Sauron held out the twitching hand in his palm. “Take it.”

The orc shifted his spear to the opposite hand, and held his hand out curiously. It seemed harmless en—

Melkor refrained from pairing and eye roll with his sigh as the creature was suddenly filled with exuberance, and leaped from the hand of the orc to his face. Weapons clattered to the ground as the orc stumbled back and grabbed at the unexpected foe, which clawed and poked at the orc’s eyelids, finally tearing them off and pulling out one eyeball after the other, squeezing each of them until they popped.

As the orc screamed and held his bleeding face, the hand of death took the opportunity to scurry between the lips of the slackening jaw, slicing into the tender flesh inside the orc’s mouth. The orc continued to scream, flailing one arm to the side, the other hand clawing at his own neck and throat, then down to his chest, tearing away the armor that protected him from outside attacks, but not from within. Blood was dripping out of his nose now, and then the orc stumbled over the dropped spear and landed on his back.

His limbs still jerked, and while the waving of his arms was weaker and weaker, the screaming did not cease. Thuringwethil turned her head away as the chest of the orc pulsed… once, twice, thrice, and then a blood-covered finger pierced through the skin, grabbing for the open air. The other digits followed, until the hand pulled itself up out of the body – but it was not done yet. In one last act of brutalization, the hand clawed back at the flesh, the orc reduced to gurgled whimpers. With sudden victory, the hand held up the still-beating heart of the orc, ripping the veins viciously away. Half-crawling, half-rolling, the hand took the heart up to the face, stuffing it into the orc’s mouth. It scrambled up further, pinching the nose of the orc as he twitched and made a last, wasted effort to stand before he expired.

“Creative,” commended Melkor. “Ineffective,” he added.

“Unless we had an army of them, my lord,” suggested Sauron as the hand returned to its new master.

Melkor watched Sauron run his fingers through the blood and gore that covered the hand, stroking it like a kitten. “If you keep that thing, I never wish to see it again,” he warned. He turned his attention back to what troops remained and how to proceed with the too-crafty Noldorin scum.

Sauron lowered his palm to his pocket, allowing the hand to crawl inside. “You heard him,” he whispered down, ignoring Melkor’s rage once again. “You will be as a shadow within the walls of Angband.” He smiled. “You are perfect.”